January 3rd, 1788
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Dining Room
Their festivities set France's teeth on edge. And no, he yelled, it wasn't because he felt odd! The whole party made him bristle with resentment, vexation, every unpleasant emotion ranging from rage to melancholy to exhaustion. Of all the things Louis could've been doing, he was throwing another party. Of all the things he could've been worrying about, it was the wines the staff was serving. He didn't deserve to laugh that strong, throaty, genuine laugh that France first heard a while ago. He shouldn't have been allowed to have genuine fun, drinking, partying, while France had it so bad. He didn't deserve his carefree life when all the others around him were keeping it afloat for him.
With each passing second France watched, listening to their superficial pettiness and chirping frivolities, his blood pressure rose until his glass shook in his hands. Each smile was a stab to his heart. Each chuckle or chortle or extra-air-blowing-out-of-their-noses made his back twinge until he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He half-expected his head to start swimming. France's equilibrium was off. He felt like he had a mild headache that wasn't quite painful yet, but would be there soon. His nose was almost stuffy, but he refused to acknowledge it. He walked around aware, just not really looking at anything. Too wrapped up in his own mind and his own fronts he was putting on.
Sickness for a Nation did not bode well. At all.
His night just kept getting worse and worse. When Louis and Marie called their closest courtiers to dinner, they all arranged themselves according to rank around Louis at the head. France fully expected Louis to push him to the bottom since their fight, and he even made his way over there before he noticed the atrocity: they left the seat to Louis' right open. The seat of honor. Either Louis told them it was France's seat, or this was all some twisted, horribly ironic trick of Fate.
He couldn't leave, Louis wouldn't let him leave. For a while he thought about getting Louis to make him leave. He planned on being nasty and confrontational, purposefully ruining their party for them. Unfortunately, his moral code wouldn't let him sink that low. He couldn't allow himself to be even more immature and petty than they were even if he tried. Besides, it wouldn't solve anything. Being a little shit to Louis and the guests wouldn't change the fact that he was throwing a party instead of dealing with severe, escalating problems. France couldn't change the fact that he was there and was Nationally obligated to tough it out until the last person retired for the night, or until Louis decided to be merciful. He bet they wouldn't pick up on his spite anyway. He'd only succeed in ruining their opinions and images of him. He couldn't give them any more ammunition against him.
No, rather than go on the attack, he put up his emotional defenses. He lined his parapets with archers to shoot arrows from his eyes in his glares. He put whole battalions of knights in plate armor, with swords and shields, in the courtyard and ward - defending his ears and mind from hearing and interpreting their words (directed at him or not). He shut and locked all the gatehouses, he laid planks of wood across the doors to keep any of his reactions locked down. He bolted and locked the door to the keep and holed himself in there to protect his heart from their poison so it could keep beating (even if it beat in fervid fury). He raised the drawbridge, closing his mouth tight and vowing to keep it shut. He made it a personal goal to ignore them. Only speak when he was directly spoken to.
It worked for most of the night, but France knew it wasn't because of him and his cloud of gloom, or his outwardly contentious, prickly demeanor. It was because of Louis. He and France hadn't talked, hadn't so much as looked at each other since France bolted out of his office. He couldn't tell - was Louis embarrassed? And if so, was he embarrassed by his actions or by France's in a second-hand way? Did he feel afraid to approach France? France didn't blame him if that indeed was the reason for his avoidance. France could say with confidence that Louis wouldn't have survived the encounter. Did he just feel awkward? Or not know what to say? In a way that sort of proved France right. There was no way to defend himself. Louis had nothing left to say except sorry, and admit he was wrong.
Either way, Louis' inaction kept France (and Louis) safe before the party, and it was the unsociable atmosphere he created around himself like a forcefield that kept all the partygoers and courtiers safe.
Until now.
The laughter died down and the conversation lulled, and it was hard for France to sit in the awkwardness and wait. He wanted to play a game with himself and try to guess who would say something stupid next, but without surveying the faces and eyes at the table it was impossible to guess who had that spark of idiocy in their irises. He resisted the urge to look, pretending to be heavily occupied by the veal on his plate. Patiently sawing through each piece on his fork for several minutes until he scraped plate five times, then shoving the piece into his mouth slowly. Chew deliberately. Swallow. Wine sip. Repeat.
Torture. As disengaged as he wanted to be, it was so boring! Listening to other people try to one-up each other was both entertaining and embarrassing. They didn't realize how ridiculous they all sounded, but he couldn't enjoy any of it, swearing to remain uninterested.
To his left, Louis' hand slipped into the upper corner of France's vision and snatched his glass off the table. France could only assume he took a sip, and while he did something must have come to his mind. "Mm!" he exclaimed, mouth full of wine. He tapped the table in front of France to get his attention, thickly swallowing. "Monsieur Bonnefoy?" Louis began.
Oh, what, he was talking to France again? After not even looking at him? Clearly they still hated each other - had Louis been working on his acting skills as well? "Hm?"
"Will you be joining us later for some party games? Once dinner is over we decided we'll be playing chess, throwing dice, uuuuum, what else . . . ?" he asked, gesturing to the rest of the table for help. "What else did we decide-"
He wanted to hold his tongue, really, he did. But in an instant he realized that he didn't have as much control over all that pent up rage as he thought. It was ready to boil over before he even realized how bad it was. France let his sass off-leash. "Oh, well that depends!" he said, falsely cheery. "What does Your Majesty demand I do?" He would have normally looked Louis in the eyes, challenged him to a duel of wills, but the thought of it exhausted him. He kept his eyes on his plate.
Louis' hesitation was all he needed to know that he stumped him. He could have nothing to say, not after ordering France to make an appearance and stay at the party for dinner. "You may do whatever you like, of course," he muttered, unable to maintain his pleasant lie. The bright tone was gone. The playfulness, gone. France killed them.
"Collateral damage," France thought. "If you're going to put up appearances make sure they can withstand bombardment. Are you certain of that?" France questioned.
Something changed when Louis spoke next. Something that made France break his oath and glance up at him to make sure it was really Louis who spoke to him. "I have confidence that you will behave yourself. There won't be any alcohol there, at least, none that will be available to you, so you won't be tempted to do what you did that one night in 1781."
Was that . . . was that sarcasm? Did Louis just . . . what? France looked into his eyes, knowing the comment was rude, just too shocked to completely grasp how. There was a bite in his tone, a flat deadpan that France never heard before. Honeyed, injected with the right amount of sweetness so those on the outside of their relationship dynamic wouldn't understand the insult. France had no idea Louis could be that snide, that backhanded. That devious in his delivery (France certainly could have used it a thousand times before). His eyes were hard; France saw more metallic silver in them than fragile grey, sparked with a new, violent sort of life. For once his eyes were on the attack and France, despite his defenses, had no idea how to counter it. He found himself lost, unable to move, trapped by the ferocity of this normally gently disposed man.
He had no idea how long he sat there, frozen. Staring in dumbfounded confusion at this unknown person. He was only ripped from the snare when a few chuckles rose around the dinner table. Laughing at what Louis said. He looked around in alarm, meeting eyes with most of them for the first time that night. Their arrogance and pretension made him feel attacked. He imagined he looked like a kicked puppy, but he couldn't flip personas fast enough to defend himself yet. France realized: most of them would have been there the first time he let himself go at that party. That night in the summer of 1781 when he wore that ridiculous outfit and gambled away every damn cent he had in his pockets and danced like an idiot all by himself and got really drunk. And slept with that one woman, what was her name? Richelle, he remembered suddenly, as if it were important. Most of them would have been there, and most of them definitely remembered everything he did, based on their sneers and chuckles.
Empowered by the reaction he received, Louis smiled at everyone around the table. "Yes, we all know Francis loves his alcohol. That very same night he paraded around Versailles naked chasing one of Marie's courtiers, but we won't talk about that. He had a lot of alcohol . . . " he trailed off. The laughing grew louder, and France had to look away. Grabbing his wine glass, he tried to laugh, pretending he found as much humor in it as Louis and his cohorts. He failed miserably, lip curling into a pained sneer rather than a smile of any sort. His heart started to ache, his body felt heavy, like lead in his limbs. He just wanted Louis to stop.
"And just recently, Francis entertained diplomats from Spain and Prussia. Personal friends of his."
A few people found the fact that he was friends with a Spaniard and a Prussian funny, interrupting Louis to giggle. He even heard people repeating him with glee, "Spain and Prussia!" "What a combination!" Et cetera.
He pretended he didn't hear them. He pretended he couldn't hear their laughs, their snorts, their snickers. He pretended Louis wasn't leading his verbal lynch mob right next to him at the table. Instead, France swirled his wine, staring with mock interest at the spiral. The little red ring it left around the glass in its wake. He went to take a sip but Louis reached for him. France recoiled as if leaning away from a diseased rat. Louis still made his joke. "Woah, woah! That's your third glass just at dinner! Be careful you don't over do it . . . " He broke down, cackling at his own joke, joining the ensemble.
What a night of firsts. For the first time in his life, France wanted Louis to stop. talking.
In a violent, aggressive flashback France was whisked away to every single time he needed Louis' help in Parliament meetings. He could picture every circumstance. Every time he had to bring Louis back from the recesses of his own mind. Every time Louis let him stand there like an idiot. Every one word answer, every non-committal shrug. All the times he could've offered insight, argued for France's case. Every time he didn't, and let France flop.
Of all the times he could've spoken up. Of all the times he could've been talkative, could've made a point about something and stood firm in it, he chose now. And he chose these stories about France.
How could he say these things? How could he embarrass France like this? On purpose, humiliate him, make him feel this insulted, this stepped-on? He wanted to leave. He wanted to get away. He wanted to go to his room, remove himself from their spotlight, their hot seat. His legs itched, he felt like he had bugs in them, under his skin. Crawling, biting, scratching, itching. But he knew Louis' order would never allow it. His toes curled inside his shoe and he resorted to bouncing his leg uncomfortably.
Louis wiped his eyes, clearing his throat to calm himself down after his laugh. "Anyway," he said, suddenly changing his tone. "While his friends were here, Bonnefoy," he stressed, mocking France's name. France sneered in reply, but for once the sharp glass in his eyes failed to intimidate. "Bonnefoy learned the hawd way why we don't dwink Wussian vodka in excess . . . " Louis flashed an arrogant smile, staring straight at France. " . . . Didn't you, Fwancis?" Cooing at him like a mother to her child. Baby-talking at him. A chorus of laughter erupted around the table. "He wound up drinking three bottles with them!"
Cries of astonishment, of, "Three?!" rose up around the table.
Why would he tell Louis that story? Why? He mentally berated himself, wishing with every fiber of himself that he could go back and just not talk to Louis that day, not start with him. Not let him see France in his vulnerable, drunk state. Not let him know France wanted to reach out to Britain. Oh, GOD, he might use that against France, too!
"That night just happened to be the one night I couldn't sleep, and I decided to take a walk around the Palace. I was in the Hall of Mirrors, just minding my own business, going about my normal proceedings when I look out into the gardens," he said, flicking his glass around as he spoke with his hands. "I look out the window right as he stripped naked and dove into the Latona Fountain!"
France raised his eyes and glared at Louis. "You know that's not how it happened," he snarled, hoping to put down Louis' humiliation attempt. He was covered up by the roars. Laughing, laughing, shifting in their seats. Rocking back and forth, all around him and Louis at the head of the table. All their heads swiveled towards him in one eerie motion, mouths all locked open to let their guffaws out at him. His cheeks heated up, he put his head down to hide it, throwing his elbow on the table and his hand across his forehead, covering his eyes.
"How the three of them got down the stairs unharmed, I'll never know! I got a full-moon look at Francis' bare bottom! The Spanish one passed out there on the ground, and the Prussian jumped into the fountain as well - fully clothed, of course! I've never known anyone who takes to nudity quite like Francis. He tripped trying to jump in and ended up sprawling over the cement barrier, one leg at a time!"
"Stop it." He swirled his wine harder.
"He's so inebriated, he sees Latona carved at the top of the fountain and decides he wants to make love to her, and proceeds to do it right there on the top of the fountain!" Louis burst into laughter again, that same guttural laugh France used to love. "By then the guards heard them. They were being so loud, I swear I heard them. I won't lie, I was a little bit jealous of their fun." The laughter quieted. Most of them were confused by Louis' statement but then he clarified, "That is, until Francis threw up all over the guard."
"Louis, stop!" France yelled, staring pleadingly into his eyes. Translating his embarrassment to his blue and locking it into Louis' metallic silver. His heart took a nosedive into his stomach, beating out of his chest. The walls cracked around him. They closed in on him. His chest seized, for every forceful exhale he couldn't take a breath in. "Please . . . " he whispered. The corners of his vision were turning black. His head swam. He didn't want anyone to see him this desperate, not while they were already making fun of him. Louis took an arrogant sip of his wine, staring at France over the glass. Shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
"Well, when you're friends with a Prussian and a Spaniard, what else would you expect?" he said.
"D-don't talk about them like that . . . " his voice sounded far away and small. He stood up, swaying unsteadily on his feet before grabbing the tablecloth to ground himself. "Woaaaah," he thought as his vision went completely black for a moment. He had to sit down. Collapsing back down, he tried to look normal by tossing back the rest of his wine. As he lowered his head back down his nose dripped. A splotch of red hit the napkin in his lap, and he wiped it with the back of his hand, staring numbly at the blood trail left on his hand and finger.
"Monsieur Bonnefoy, is that true?"
"No."
"So how is life at the Palace now that you've become a freeloader?" Louis asked.
"A freeloader?"
"France is my adviser, yes, but just recently he swore off of helping me, as of someone swearing off of the opera during Lent. Now he simply lives here and takes advantage of the hospitality of Versailles."
"Shut up." Did he just call him . . . His glass crinkled in his hand. "You made me . . . "
"You know what the best part is?" Louis giggled. He said it loudly, like he wanted to address the whole table, but leaned closer to France like he was sharing a secret. "You are just as arrogant as the rest of us. You criticize me constantly. You walk around like I'm the problem. You act like you're so much better than me. You act like you're so much better for France than me. You and Brienne, always ordering me around, always being know-it-alls. You might think you know what's best, but you are just as ineffective as I am. Everything you do fails. Everything you try doesn't work. If you know 'so much about France', why can't you even help yourself? Why is it you keep sinking lower and lower?"
France's glass cracked. Shut up, shut up, shut up-
"The truth is there's nothing you can do. You wasted as much time as me. You watched me twiddle my thumbs and did nothing. You are no better than me," he repeated. "You are no better than an eighteen year old, ill-equipped, irresponsible man who has no idea what he is doing. You just have a more eloquent way of doing nothing. You wrap it up in passionate words and pretty sentiments, that's all. Just you wait. Despite all your valiant efforts-"
He slammed his palm on the table. "Say ONE MORE THING!" France screamed, daring him.
" . . . You. Will. Fail."
France snapped. His rage boiled over. He squeezed his glass so hard in his clenched fist it shattered, raining shards and blood across the table. Others around the two of them gasped in alarm, throwing their chairs back.
He grabbed the knife and lunged at Louis.
"Francis!" Louis yelled, waking him from his daydream with a start.
Wait . . . He was back in his seat. The napkin was still in his lap, he hadn't even moved. He didn't attack Louis? He looked and sure enough, the knife was still on his plate. He looked and sure enough, Louis was still sitting calmly to his left. No stab wounds in sight. France gently placed both trembling hands on the table cloth, making sure that where he was and what was happening right now was real and that he was really out of the dream. "W-what?"
"I asked if you would be joining us later for some party games."
"No," he blurted out. He sniffed thickly, remembering his nose, and quickly wiped at it with the back of his hand again, staring in confusion when his hand came away clean. "No, I, um . . . " His other hand was in tact as well, no cuts or shards of glass anywhere. Wine glass still full where he left it. Turning both of them over, he couldn't understand what he was looking at. Why he was still sitting where he was, why he saw what he saw, and did what he did, and everything was still . . . He looked up at Louis, locking eyes with soft grey. Soft, faded grey. Not sharp silver. Everyone else around the table was calm, staring at him with pleasant expectation, awaiting his answer. Not accusing, not laughing.
It never happened. It was all a daydream.
He felt all the blood drain from his face. He ran a slow hand through his hair, ripping out the ribbon.
"France?" he asked in alarm, happy face falling. He didn't even realize he called France by his National name. "Are you alright?"
Was he? That was a scary experience. A scary, humiliating experience. His heart started beating thickly again, the room felt like it was going to collapse at any minute and he was going to be crushed. He stood up, trembling knees barely holding him up. He couldn't tell what he said or what he didn't say and where the daydream began and where real life ended and he had no idea what happened.
"May I be excused?" He stared pleadingly at Louis, praying with all of him he saw the desperation in France's eyes. "Please?" he tacked onto the end.
Louis stared at him for another second, then nodded. "Yes, of course."
February, 1788
Le Château de Versailles
Royal Chapel
France knew he wasn't alone in the chapel. He hadn't been alone in the chapel since he received Communion. His heart sensed the visitor. It hiccuped in mild annoyance the moment someone interrupted his solitary mass. He heard the tip-toed footsteps when they entered. He felt the eyes on his back the whole time, watching him kneel and pray and stand when the cardinal motioned for him to. Scrutinizing him. Judging him.
"Alright, place your bets, France!" he thought to himself. "Who is it, Louis? Brienne?" There was no reason for anyone else at Versailles to talk to him anymore. He put his money on Louis. That was who he wanted to talk to the least, and considering his luck was poorer than thirteen broken mirrors, he had no reason to give himself the benefit of the doubt.
He thought Louis was too embarrassed to talk to him since their fight, but ever since his daydream - could he call it a daydream? - he was the one feeling awkward. He stabbed Louis. Murdered Louis. And whatever fear he saw in France's face when he woke up scared him as well. He knew Louis had questions. And if he had a choice he would avoid explaining himself at all costs.
"Benedícat vos omnípotens Deus - Pater, et Fílius, et Spíritus Sanctus, Amen." The cardinal made the sign of the cross above France and he crossed himself as well, reaching as far as he could for his forehead, chest, and shoulders with his elbow locked to his side to keep his shoulder still.
"Amen," he muttered.
Almost immediately the footsteps began their odyssey across the marble floor towards him. Fast-paced and pounding, filled with purpose. The hair on his neck stood up, the urge to shudder attacked his neck, sending a spasm down his cut that frayed each individual nerve of his raw skin. He squirmed violently before he could stop it, arching his back. He managed to choke down the scream and gasped weakly instead. Closer, closer . . . He couldn't help but feel like they were going to attack him. He was in an extremely vulnerable position, on his knees with his back turned. He desperately wanted to look and see who it was before they snuck up on him, but he knew if he did that he would have to talk. To ward them off he knelt back down on the pillow and folded his hands, launching into the first prayer he thought of.
"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum." Closer and closer, so heavy on the marble they even shook the pillow under his knees. Interrupting his thought processes. "Bene- . . . " No, wait, was the benedicta the next part? He ran through it again from the beginning, but the clap, clap, CLAP getting louder and louder scared him. Who was it? That didn't sound like Louis or Brienne's steps. Who was it?! "AveMariagratiaplenaDominustecum-"
The footsteps slowed down as they drew level with him, and the person who owned them stood next to him. Didn't speak, didn't move. Just stood there. Enticing France to him. He had to know who it was. Despite himself France paused again and forced a deep, calming breath in and out of his lungs. Once he felt sufficiently prepared he looked up. Brienne! What a sigh of relief, he noted, actually sighing. He could talk to Brienne. France kept his eyes on him, waiting for him to start talking, but he was looking at the alter. He looked displeased, face drooped in a deep frown that added wrinkles to his face.
For some reason, France couldn't help but feel like the man was displeased with him. He looked like a parent about to scold their child - authoritative hands folded behind his back. Chin up, eyebrows furrowed. As if he knew France's true intentions for coming to mass. He decided to ask Brienne about it, and call himself out before Brienne had a chance to. "Is it bad that a majority of the reason why I came here was for a change of scenery?" France asked, returning his eyes to his folded hands.
If it were possible, his eyebrows furrowed deeper. "Uuuum, I-"
"And why are you walking so loud? You're distracting me."
"Ah, you forget I was a clergyman before a statesman. Chapels, hallowed grounds, and holy places are my domain. My natural habitat, if you will." France heard the smile in his voice. "Finish your prayer," Brienne said, kneeling next to him on the stone. "I'm impressed you know the Latin."
"Hmph!" he chuckled. "That would be Charlemagne's doing. I've had centuries to learn it. "
Brienne folded his hands as well, closing his eyes. "Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus-"
"106 years. 106 years at Versailles, and the chapel still isn't old. Look at this place," he said, unfolding his hands to gesture around with his left arm. "The openness, the way the columns seem to wrap around you like a hug. The homey feeling. How echo-y it is in here. I love it."
"Beautiful," Brienne agreed flatly.
"Even at night, it's always bright in here with all the white stone, and look at the cherubim reliefs carved into the columns! They're all different. The designs on the floor catch my eyes and don't let them go. No matter where you look there's always something to look at. The gold on the alter gives it an ethereal quality you won't find anywhere else in the palace. I wish I could find the words for it but all I can come up with is inspiring."
"But is that the only reason why you attended a mass?" The disapproval was almost tangible. Shame sank France's heart, immediately replaced by irritation. What did France expect, other than disappointment? He was discussing his poor church habits with a man of the church.
"I came because I'm sick of the monotony. I'm exhausted but don't want to lie in my room anymore. I need fresh air but don't want to go outside to the gardens anymore. I've tried every other room in this palace. The chapel is the only place I can be alone and think - or not think if I don't want to! The problem is that I'm not using it for the purpose of its construction. Is that bad?"
" . . . Mm. Perhaps a bit," he grunted, sighing tiredly. "But I cannot say with finality what pleases or displeases God outside of His word in the Bible. It is not my place to speak or judge for Him. I will say this: mass isn't something that should be done half-heartedly. It should be a spiritual renewal. A plea for forgiveness, and in turn a strengthening of your faith and relationship with God and your willingness to serve Him."
Okay. Then this was where France ducked out of the conversation. "What do you want?" he asked, changing the subject. "I hope Louis didn't send you to get me back. Surely he told you of my - what did he call it? An abandonment? A defection? Desertion?"
"He didn't call it any of that."
"Oh, come on! He must have blamed it on me somehow. Lay it on me. I can take it."
"He didn't blame you at all, France. In fact, he seemed apologetic when he told me."
"Did he apologize outright?"
"Well no, but-"
"Did he explicitly admit blame in any way?"
"No. Stop being difficult-"
"Unless he commits to getting me back, I refuse." France paused, thinking about the wording of his sentence. A light switch flipped on in his mind, and he knew something changed. He knew he reached a startling revelation that would have helped him thirteen years ago.
He always wanted to know Louis, understand him. He always wanted to be close to him, to know how he worked, how he operated, what went on inside his head when he was thinking. France made the connection as he said it, like someone just pulled the blindfold away from his eyes. Like he finally had an overhead view of a maze. He had a new revelation, a new clarity and point of view that he never had before, and as he applied it to everything he and Louis went through, it worked seamlessly.
Louis operated - no, thrived - on assumptions.
He never said anything specific. He let people put words in his mouth and make assumptions on what they think he said, and he used it to his advantage. He played with and molded peoples' perceptions of him until he had them thinking what he wanted them to think of him. The moment they stopped and realized they didn't actually know what he said, he backed away. He grew defensive, he pretended he was attacked from the beginning. And nobody could prove him otherwise, because he never said anything concrete to begin with.
The trick was to make him commit. Make him say something he couldn't back out of, or change last-minute. France remembered thinking those exact words at different points, "Make him commit." And, he thought, each time he usually got done what he wanted done. Rather than be comforted and relieved in his revelation, a bitterness planted itself in France's heart and bloomed into a tree of indignation.
It was a monumental discovery, but unfortunately, France couldn't use it. He already removed himself from the situations and opportunities in which it would be useful. It came too little, too late, and France didn't have the desire to act on it.
"But he wants you back. Believe me when I tell you that I try to help him and guide him myself, but he doesn't quite trust me without you. He feels directionless."
"Welcome to my world," France commented.
"Listen to me. You're all he talks about. 'What would France do?' 'Would France approve of this?' 'Do you think you could possibly get his opinion?'"
France actually laughed. "Don't lie to me," he smirked, dragging himself to his feet. A dizzy spell threatened him, touching his forehead and making him lightheaded, but he slapped the hand away, regaining control.
Brienne got up as well. With much more ease, France noted jealously. "It's not a lie."
"If Louis were that desperate, he'd have swallowed his pride by now and sent someone to apologize." He would have committed.
"How do you know that's not what I'm here for?"
Oh, please! France clicked his tongue and glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "That's not why you're here." He didn't get that feeling from Brienne at all. Cornering France for this discussion wasn't Brienne's style. He would've found somewhere where they could debate and negotiate. Right after mass wasn't ideal. Not for someone who respected mass like Brienne. France shook his head. "That's not why you're here," he repeated. "For your sake, I hope it's not," France said, staring deeply into Brienne's eyes.
Brienne paused, staring back at him. "You're right," he admitted. "That's not why I'm here."
"Either way, we still have a problem, Monsieur! I hope you haven't come to bother me with affairs of state," he warned, spinning on his heels. He pushed past Brienne and strode towards the back of the chapel.
Brienne, those loud footsteps, followed him. "I just thought you'd be interested in the proceedings of the recent Parliament meetings."
France snorted. "Couldn't care less, actually."
"You don't care?"
"Nope! That's why I left you two. I'm done with national politics."
"Now you're lying!" Brienne said, growing irritated. "There's no way you're going to let Louis run rampant with your country! You can't 'not care', you've said it countless times! Your Nation won't let you!"
"Don't presume you know anything about me, or about being a Nation! You have no idea what you're talking about!" France hissed over his shoulder.
"We need you-"
"I don't care! I'm not doing this to be some defiant child! I'm not doing this only because I want to spite Louis! I'm fed up with being walked on! To say the least!" he added. He threw open the chapel doors, just enough for himself to slip through. Brienne had to shove them open further, and France quickened his pace when he heard his grunt of exertion.
"They've applied for more loans!" he yelled to France's back.
"Don't care!" he yelled over his shoulder.
"They've been approved!"
France only waved dismissively.
"And you remember those letters? The lettres-de-cachet?"
"Nope!"
"Apparently, Louis has locked so many people up that the appeals reached the Parliamentary table! The national table! The Parliament outlawed them."
"Congratulations."
"France, please-"
"No!" he screamed, whirling around. He marched back to where he left Brienne, at the door of the chapel. "You don't know what you're pleading about! You don't know why I left, no matter how much Louis told you! He thinks it was because of some isolated incident, but that only encompasses about this much of it!" France held up his hand and put a centimeter of space between his outstretched thumb and pointer finger. "I refuse to do Louis' job for him, then let him treat me like garbage! And you're not going to treat me like this either, begging me to come back when you don't know the whole story. I don't need your sass right now, I don't need your judgements! All the time I get away from you, and from Louis, and from the Parliament, and the courtiers, and the failures is a relief! I will not let you interrupt my peace."
"And what are you going to do instead?" Brienne yelled back. "Sit here and sulk? Lie in your bed for weeks on end, occasionally leaving to go misuse the chapel of a faith you don't even have anymore?!"
"Faith never applied to me in the first place! I relied on luck, and all the luck that used to work for me has stopped! I had faith in Louis for thirteen years, thirteen years too long! I need to be reasonable now! I need to be logical! I need to be smart, and I need to keep my damned sanity!" France jabbed his finger into Brienne's chest. "Don't criticize me for doing what I had to do!"
"I'm criticizing you for quitting this late in the game! When it's you who will ultimately suffer for it, not him! I can understand your contempt of Louis. But how could you not even respect yourself enough to keep going?"
"You don't know what you're talking about! Do you know how hard it is to have to make a conscious choice between your mind and your body?" Brienne opened his mouth but France's lip curled in a snarl. "No, you don't!" he growled. "I've been alive for centuries, I've seen monarchs come and go and never - never! - in all my years, in all my dynasties, has it been this bad! I'm losing touch with fucking reality!" A lump formed in his throat, threatening to crack his voice. But he had to keep going. He had to unload on the only person who would listen, who would try to understand despite this being a culmination of a National and human problem. Whether or not Brienne could do anything for him, he had to talk. He rubbed his face tiredly. "I'm losing my grasp on what's real and what's not real and I'm confused and I'm scared!"
His eyes started burning, his nose running. When he wiped it with his hand a shocking red trail led from his wrist to his fingernail. Perfect! Just what he needed to top of an excellent day. Tears blurred Brienne in front of him, welling up so fast they spilled immediately.
"My human is so scared my Nation is scared! And th-" His voice cracked. He swallowed thickly to hide it, forcing a disgusting mixture of blood and mucus down his throat. He sucked in a breath, hoping to continue, but the air went into a sob. "That - you can't - I don't - you'll never." His heart ached so badly it radiated to his shoulders, and he wanted to rip it out of his chest. He wanted to claw it out, tear skin and crush bone and rip out the thing that was hurting him so deeply. He blinked and the hot, salty tears cleared away for a moment before the next round was there, ready to be released down his cheeks. Like his eyes were open floodgates. "Don't act like you even have any semblance of my pain, or my fear! Do-on't pretend you- you can quantify any of my emotions! Keep your - " He paused for a hiccup. "Keep your criticism to yourself! Keep your stupid pleas to yourself!" He broke down completely. His hand muffled another sob that heaved his shoulders. "Oh God," he croaked. He didn't want to be there anymore. On every level and interpretation of there. His heart felt heavy, he just wanted to grab it in his fist and squeeze all the emotion out of it and just disconnect. His legs didn't help him either. He collapsed to the floor, right there at Brienne's feet. He felt his very own heart crack like porcelain, and the emotion and tears flooded the rest of him.
"France-?" he asked softly. He reached out to rest a comforting hand on France's shoulder without realizing it was his injured one. France ducked the gesture and swatted Brienne's hand away. Brienne backed away, already apologizing.
"I'm sorry, France. I'm sorry. I should've known. I . . . I'm sorry. You're right." France heaved himself to his feet to leave but Brienne rushed forward and grabbed his arm. "Sometimes I forget that you have two personas you have to balance. I became inconsiderate. I forgot that your job . . . I should respect your decision. I know you have deeper reasons than spite, you've always been deeper than that. And I know you're scared, and I know you feel like you're losing control. Look at me."
France thought he heard pity in his voice, and pity was the last thing he wanted. He didn't want anyone feeling anything towards him, good or bad. He just wanted to be alone. He shook his head and pulled his arm away from Brienne, but the man's grip tightened.
"France, look at me." No, wait. It wasn't pity. It was solemn, yes, but there was a quiet intensity that pulled France's eyes to his like they had a rope between them. "I swear to you, I'll do my best to help you. Have faith again, and put it in me. I'll help France, I promise. It will be okay. You'll be okay."
April, 1788
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber
'Spain,
You know how when you have a headache, you drink a tonic? You know how it wears off after a while? And you know how, since you spent so long pain-free, when the pain comes back it's ten times worse than before?
Well thanks for acting like my tonic, but my headache's back. And it's back with a vengeance.
Saddle up your horse, buddy. We're going for a ride:
After you and Prussia left, Louis, Brienne, and I went back to work on the tax situation I mentioned. They didn't pass through the Parliaments. With no more ideas and nothing else to do we had to give an extension to the system already in place. It was so stupid. Why even try in the first place, you know?
In the meantime I corresponded with - and do NOT judge me - Britain. I tried to invite him over so we could do kind of what the three of us did. I wanted us to get drunk off of cheap English rum and gin and I wanted to watch Britain slosh around like an idiot. Regrettably, he didn't come. He told me that he's going through tough times too. George III is sick and he's too busy dealing with it to leave.
I can't lie to you, Spain. There are no secrets between the Bad Touch Trio, so I feel okay admitting to you that his refusal hurt a little bit. I understand that Britain is dealing with a very serious problem, but it still hurt. I would have really liked to see him. And fight with him! It could have felt like old times, for just a little bit.
After that I decided it was time for me to tune in to the streets again like I did when Louis banished me to Paris. When I felt lost the people always had something going on, you know? They always had something to do, they were always helping their own cause. They had a certain fire and energy I couldn't find anywhere else, especially not at Versailles. I snuck out nearly every night for about a week and - please don't judge me for this either - I stole the horses you gave Louis to make the trip (sorry). An old friend of mine in Paris filled me in until the regulars trusted me enough to include me in their talks.
I didn't exactly figure out a whole lot. Usually they talked themselves in circles with what they wanted to do and what happened in Versailles and what they should do. All of it was speculation and social justice theories that couldn't be proven unless in put into practice, and most of them were too afraid to put it into practice.
Louis caught me after a week, and he even tried to stop me from leaving again. He placed guards outside my doors assuming I was using the doors. Though, I honestly think he was more upset about the horses than he was about me being potentially mutinous. He made a really big deal about the stupid horses.
I didn't mean that. The horses aren't stupid - they're actually very bright animals and very pleasant.
The guards didn't interrupt my schedule in the slightest. I went out for another week. Until! He had the guards in front of the palace wait for me and tail me to Paris. I was making the rounds in and around the tavern when they barged in and took me back by force. I accidentally (whoops) punched one of them in the jaw before they got a hold of me and "subdued" me.
Imagine the shock on everyone's faces when their new friend turned out to be a freaking royalist, right? A high-ranking royalist, too. I'm pretty sure I heard their trust shatter like glass. They drug me back to Louis, who was still screaming about the horses, and I unloaded on him. I was so upset with him for ruining every Paris connection I could have possibly had, and I told him I was done with him and I was done trying to help him when he didn't appreciate it anyway.
I've sort of been lazing around the Palace ever since. I mean, I can't go back to Paris and I have nothing else to do.
Like I said, the headache's back.
I'm getting sick again. I know I am. I can feel it. I don't quite feel right as of late. I feel like I'm not really here, like I'm watching myself go through the mundane motions from someone else's point of view. I'm getting dizzy spells again, a bloody nose, and my back hurts a lot and my temperature's been fluctuating. Not largely, just enough that I know something's wrong. I'm not telling you this to worry you at all. But I know you care about me and I knew you'd want to be updated.'
France's own comment about lies in the letter made his stomach do a little flip, but there was no way he was going to tell Spain about the vision he had of himself stabbing Louis. Spain would already be mildly concerned by the things France wrote, and if he knew France was hallucinating he'd go into full-scale panic mode. The acknowledgement of someone else's panic made him understand for a fraction of a second how serious it was, but he quickly dismissed the thoughts. He'd be fine.
'Since I'm not busy, and I left Louis with Brienne, I was maybe hoping to invite myself to your place. What do you say to the beginning of May?
Let me know your thoughts on any of this, especially May. I need to get away from here or I swear I'll go crazy!
I don't want you to pity me. In fact, your pity is the last thing I want. Just humor me, and let me pretend everything's normal for now until I decide on a course of action.
I really appreciate you two being here for me. Au revoir, and tell Romano I said hello!
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'
He wrote a near replica to Prussia, switching out the names. Too drained to come up with more sincerities he didn't already cover. He was a little bit excited to hear each of their opinions and each of their different takes on it anyway.
"Tell me the truth. How bad does it look?" France asked.
"I haven't even gotten the bandages off yet, Monsieur," the doctor said. "It looks angry, though."
"Great. Well get them off quick. It's going to hurt and I'd rather it be done as soon as possible."
"Actually, there's a lot of seepage here. It's probably lubricating the bandages. They may come away easy."
'Britain,
I'm terribly, horribly sorry for the late reply to your beautiful letter! It was such a work of art! Especially the beginning. The descriptive and poetic language you used read smooth off my tongue like butter. Unfortunately, I was so busy I couldn't immediately give it the attention it deserved!
I understand your inability to leave your country. I bet it's hard right now with His Majesty sick. How sick is sick, if you don't mind me asking? Sick enough for you to get his affairs in order, or just mildly-worried-about-him sick? I sincerely hope it's the latter. I say this in earnest: if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. I'll do the best that I can to help. I know that no matter how much we despise each other (or pretend to, I'm not quite sure what it is we do. Let's keep it that way. It's invigorating), you would do the same for me.
The last time I wrote to you, things were looking up. But I have to tell you they took a dark turn for the worst.
I won't regale you with the details, partially because I don't want you knowing my business, and you need to learn to keep your snubbed English nose up in the air and out of everyone's business. I just wanted to let you know that my invitation to you was an open invitation, and it will remain open for as long as you want it to. In fact, I propose a trade! An Open House Act, if you will. Considering we reestablished peaceful (necessary?) trade relationships between us with the 1783 Treaty of Paris, I propose we apply it to our personal relationships. You come over whenever you want with sufficient warning and I go over there whenever I want with sufficient warning. At least consider it, please. You do not understand how desperately I need an excuse to escape Versailles for a while.
If you decide to accept my invitation now make sure you procure as much rum, gin, and liquor as possible. Whatever will get us the most drunk the fastest. Give me a week's warning and then, quite literally, show up. Don't mind Louis or Marie if they treat you poorly. If you have any questions, all you need to know is that we're fighting, Louis and I. And if you decide to come please pleasepleaseplease bring Canada along with you! I haven't seen him for almost twice as long as I haven't seen you.
Remember: if you're going to be a smartass, first you have to be smart. Otherwise you're just an ass. Work on that.
Cheerio!
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'
The doctor was right. The bandages pulled right off.
"Wow. This is really seeping! And bleeding! What did you do to it?"
"Nothing! Tell me how bad it is! Has it torn completely open or is it just a bad scratch?"
"It's a little of both," he said hesitantly.
"Lovely."
'America,
I've tried to do what you said. I've tried to heed your Chief's advice, the thing about unforgiveness. There's just one problem with it: he doesn't account for repeat offenders.
What are you supposed to do when you've forgiven and forgiven and forgiven, but they continue to wrong you? What if they know they're hurting you but they continue to do it, taking advantage of the fact that they'll be forgiven? Are you supposed to continue to be their doormat on the grounds of forgiveness? Or are you allowed to hit a point where you refuse them?
I don't know if there are any right or wrong answers, and I don't necessarily want to think too deeply into it, I just think I've hit that point with Louis. It's so strange. My anger at him is . . . strobing. Sometimes I'm furious, and it's easy for me to blame him, and just the thought of him makes me want to kick him in a very sensitive area. Other times I'm just exhausted. And I can't even muster the energy to care about him in the slightest. It's like he's constantly moving in my mind. Every time I think about him he's different. Sometimes I get images of an innocent, naïve Louis who doesn't realize what he's doing to me and to France. Sometimes I get the malevolent Louis, who's messing me up because he's purposefully too lazy.
Whatever. I've decided to cut all ties with him.
I have a favor to ask of you. I want you to keep an eye on that Treaty of Alliance we signed together in 1778. I'm not sure why, but I just feel comforted knowing you're contractually obligated to watch my back. Not that anything's going to happen - please don't think I'm trying to be ominous or anything. I don't know what I should be doing right now, personally or Nationally. I'm just trying to keep my loose ends as close to tied as possible so that when I have an opening to do whatever is necessary by my Nation I'll be prepared to.
Does that at all make sense?
Either way, this was a great opportunity to say hello. Pull up that treaty!
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'
"I think you'd be pleased to know that only the top few inches of it have broken open."
"Woooow, yes, that's very comforting," he retorted sarcastically.
"The whole thing has a red irritated ring around it, and around that is a speckled purple and red bruise that is actually quite alarming."
'Canada,
Bonjour.
This is probably going to be the most awkward letter in the universe, partially because I don't even know how to begin to apologize to you.
I think step one would simply be to say that I am so incredibly sorry. For everything. For anything and everything I've done to you. I'm so sorry, with every fiber of my being I am sorry, and I wish I could go back and redo all of it. I wouldn't treat you so poorly, and I'd show you how much I appreciate you more often than I did.
Okay, step two: right the wrong. I'm going to explain everything to you, just like I promised so long ago. I know it's not going to make everything okay again, and I won't pretend it's going to make you feel better - in fact, it probably won't. I've sat for a long while trying to find a sequence of events that turns into a happy ending here, but after exhausting my mental database I've resigned myself to the fact that you're going to hate me, and hate me for a long time. If that's how you feel that's how you feel, and I understand you feeling that way. I'm mostly upset with myself for being selfish enough to have done this to you.
So, let's go back to 1778, after I signed that Treaty of Alliance with America. Louis didn't quite grasp the magnitude of the Treaty, or the funds we'd actually be pouring over there. He took Parliament's word over mine that it was the best decision, and signed off on it without looking at it. Do you know what their trump card was? That it would be a way to one-up Britain. I think back on it with even more bitterness than when it happened. If they wanted to one-up Britain they could've just cooked some food, or something. How ridiculous.
Even after we sent troops and funds to America, Louis and Marie kept spending and spending. The two of them, and America's revolution effectively bankrupted me. No matter how many times I tried to appeal to the two of them, nothing changed. They just didn't quite understand what was happening.
I spent 1781 through 1786 in Paris, because Louis removed me from my position as his advisor and kicked me out of the Palace. I spent a majority of those years in my bed, suffering through political, social, and economical illness. Fevers, tremors, headaches and dizziness, weakness, vomiting, the whole nine yards. I sent you a letter during that time, but it was one of those brushing-off letters. I probably didn't put any of your concerns to rest.
I took action towards the tail end of those years, thriving off of street gossip and Third Estate happenings and reactions. I even went on a few small riots. I started to help myself, or at least I gave myself the illusion that I was helping myself. Whether or not it was a placebo effect doesn't matter. It helped.
In 1786 Louis called me back to the Palace. His attitude was different by then. He was ready to roll his sleeves up, and get down to business. He seemed extremely willing to listen to me and do whatever it took to fix the situation. I think he started to feel like his kingdom was slipping through his fingers, but it's impossible to completely identify Louis' motives. Together with him and a new finance minister, Calonne, we all convoked an Assembly of Notables to hear grievances from each estate and enact a new tax system Calonne worked up. We ultimately failed. I found out later he was borrowing and applying for loans behind my back anyway. Louis fired him.
The people didn't want the Assembly of Notables, they wanted the Estates General, which is just another governing body that acts as a direct representative Parliament. The nobles supported the decision, and because they did, I haven't gotten a single thing passed since the spring of 1778. That's a bit of an exaggeration, but you get what I mean. When you leave Britain and have a government of your own you'll understand.
Just recently, I tried to go back to the people and do what I did in the early 1780s. Unfortunately, Louis had other ideas for me. He knew about it but still let me sneak out for about two weeks before sending guards after me and arresting me in front of a room full of people. They made sure all of them knew I worked for Louis, too. They screamed up a storm about me returning to my place next to him. I'm pretty sure all their jaws hit the floor.
I. was. pissed.
When they drug me back to the palace I let loose all the pent up anger I was holding in, and I told him off. And actually, I think I may have quit my job as his advisor this time? I'm not really sure. I didn't use those words outright but the two of us haven't talked since and he's relying on his finance minister to help him. The funny thing is that most of the time when I lose it like that, I regret what I did. Usually I've said something I didn't mean, or I've done something I shouldn't have done, but not this time. Even though I was practically seeing red, I was consciously aware of everything I did. And even though I know abandoning Louis and Brienne to their devices may effect me at some point, I feel like I did right by me. I feel like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders, and I can breathe again. Despite not knowing what to do with myself around Versailles, I feel free. I feel like I could do whatever I wanted. I have the power to do whatever I wanted. And in a way it's comforting.
So, there. That's what happened. That's everything that happened between our last major correspondence.
Now, step three: ask for forgiveness.
Here's where I end the letter. It's for you to read and interpret and react to. I will respect your decision no matter if it's in my favor or not, but I want to ask you to please, please forgive me. I was in pain, and exhausted, and irritable, and falling apart as a country.
That doesn't excuse my actions, I know it doesn't.
I hurt you, I am sorry I hurt you, and I promise with all of me, it will not happen again. If you give me another chance I will prove to you how much you mean to me, and how my selfish days are behind me.
Please, please find it within yourself to give me another chance.
Je t'aime, mon enfant.
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'
"It seeps and seeps," France told him. "Day in, day out. And the upper part that's broken open bleeds. My jacket ends up wet from it. Do you think you could wrap it with thicker bandages?"
"Should we also make my visits twice a day, instead of once?"
"Yes, I can't keep ruining jackets."
"I'm not sure I could do much else for you except smooth a pain killing paste on it and wrap it more thickly. When the paste dries it very well may dry out the seepage and help it start healing."
"Do whatever you have to do." Again, there was that placebo effect. Even if the remedies didn't exactly work physically, the psychological effects could be just as uplifting.
"D'accord. Otherwise, you're a healthy man!" France almost snorted. "It's confounding me. You should've healed in a month but here we are almost two years later."
'Austria,
I hope my letter finds you, Holy Rome, Italy, and Hungary in good health.
I'm not sure I ever thanked you for stopping over that one day. "You saved my life," seems like a dramatic overstatement considering our circumstances, but it's true. You saved my life, and no words in any language - not yours, not mine, not the National language - is going to accurately convey my gratitude. It's too great.
I hope someday I can repay a fraction of the kindness you showed me. As a start, I've commissioned Louis Bas to go to to your house and build you his new Grand Piano. The one with an inverted westplank, and key-action based on the work of Bartolomeo Cristofori. I used my own savings for it, not the crown's money. I think you'll enjoy playing it.
If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to let me know. I'll do my best to help you out.
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'
"Hmph! Here we are."
May 3rd, 1788
Saint-Denis, France
Basilique Royale de Saint-Denis
Dagobert I. King of the Franks from 629 to the 19th of January, 639. Mérovingian Dynasty, France's first dynasty.
He didn't remember Dagobert. He didn't remember any of the Mérovingians. He was only a baby when they reigned. France's working memory began with Charlemagne and the Carolingian Dynasty somewhere around 800, when he was a toddler by human age.
Dagobert had an ornate tomb. Fitting for the man who built the church of France's patron saint, Denis. And though he received dirty looks from a few monks, France felt it was worth climbing to the side of the altar to view it. It was a tiered structure; Dagobert lay at the bottom, on his side with his hands folded peacefully in rigid stone. A soft-looking pillow propped up his head, and his eyes were carved open with a warm and inviting smile on his face. Thick beard on his face and thick hair spilling out the sides of his crown. The crown itself was plain, just a circlet with four fat fleur-de-lis looking pegs sticking up around it. It didn't look like there were any jewels on it. He wore plain clothes as well - robes and a burial shroud. France couldn't tell if his feet were bare and the stone wore away, or if he had cloth shoes on. His scepter was right by his side.
Mary and Joseph stood upright on either side of him, and the next tier read left to right. Dagobert lay on his deathbed with a bishop blessing him. As it moved left the scene transformed into Dagobert leaving the bishop to step into a boat. Little devil-looking creatures completely surrounded him. They crawled all over themselves and all over the boat to get to Dagobert, but he remained calm, his eyes closed and his hands folded in fervid prayer. The next tier read right to left, starting with Dagobert exiting the boat, hands outstretched to another bishop and other holy figures. The creatures around him cowered away and sprawled about, falling out of the boat to get away from them. They looked shock-stricken, repelled by the holy powers before them.
The top tier featured angels and bishops, stretching out a cloth between them. Dagobert stood on the cloth, naked except for his crown. They hoisted him up to the sky, his head was inclined upwards, and trumpeters heralded from Heaven all around him. Carved angels encircled the whole scene to a taper, and above them, in the top triangular part, was Jesus. He was being lifted up to Jesus.
The rest of the house-shaped tomb had two spires on either side. Crockets peppered the spires and the roof, simultaneously drawing France's eyes and confusing them. A plant of some sort that looked like wheat to France bloomed at the top. Symbolic of love and charity. Dagobert's sculptors did a beautiful job, and he hoped it did Dagobert's pride and majesty justice. It certainly made France proud to claim him.
"Requiescat in pace," France muttered. He felt the urge to touch the man. His smiling face looked so comforting and France needed it. He reached out and gently traced the fingers of his folded hands, smiling back at him. "Do you remember me?" he asked. "I'm much older now than when you knew me. Look how much I've grown. I don't remember you, but I know that I know you. You feel like an old friend."
If France went in chronological order, Clovis II was next. He kissed his hand and touched it to Dagobert's one last time, then turned back to the church. Clovis the Lazy. "What a title to have," France thought. And all this time he thought that was Louis XVI's title.
Clovis II. King of the Franks from 639 to the 27th of November, 657. 18 years of regency in 20 years of life. His tomb was on the same side of the South Transept as Dagobert, though France wasn't sure exactly where he was. France braved the scowls of the monks again and climbed down the altar stairs, walking along the statues until he found him lying among the last of a cluster of effigies.
He and Charles Martel, a Prince of the Franks from 718 to 741, lay on the same slab. The two of them were almost identical. Same crown as Dagobert, passed down the line, though France could see now that what he thought were fleurs-de-lis were actually clovers. Jewels embellished the band but only maybe five or six. Nowhere near the number on the French crown now. They both sported the same thick beard and mustache, they both maintained Dagobert's hair, straight with a single curl at the bottom. They rested on identical pillows, wore near identical robes, identical cloth shoes, both their right hands rested across their chests, left hands around their hip area. Short scepters resting beside them.
The contours of their faces were a little different, France decided after looking closely. Clovis had a flat, sharp nose while Charles Martel behind him had a hooked, bulbous nose. Clovis' face was a little longer as well.
"Who were you two?" France asked them silently. "Were you active rulers, and loved by your people? Or was I a fussy baby?" The thought brought a slight smile to France's face. He couldn't imagine going through the pains he was going through now as a baby. He would've screamed non-stop. God speed whoever took care of him back then during a rough time period. "So ends the Mérovingian Dynasty," he whispered, kissing his fingers and touching both their hands. At least, the Merovingians who were buried in the basilica. "Requiescat in pace."
France backtracked to Pippin and his Queen Bertha, next to Dagobert just on the floor, not the raised altar. Pippin the Younger, first of the Carolingian Dynasty. King of the Franks, 751 through 768. He looked the same as the rest. Their crowns grew extremely ornate by France's standards back then. The greater-detailed clovers looked textured and authentic, and Pippin added more jewels to his, each in their own individual sectioned off part of the band. Designs and embellishments sculpted into the metal around the jewels of Bertha's added an elegance to hers versus the boldness of his. The two of them had full length staves in their left hands, and their right hands were across their chests. He clutched a fistful of his cape, while her thumb hooked into the clasp of her cape.
"King Pippin," he said, testing the name out on his tongue. "According to history, you were the first to expand my territory. First into the Rhône, which I still own, then into Italian Lombard territory. I still own Narbonne, too. Roussillon, Toulouse, Clermont, Bourbon, Poitiers. Still mine, thanks to you. I am proud to call you mine, and I'm proud to call myself yours."
It was amazing, how despite the similarities and traditions of style and funeral dress, the sculptors still managed to give each of France's kings their own distinct personality. None of them looked as friendly as Dagobert, but Clovis II had a squinty-eyed judgmental look while Charles Martel had a close-eyed, solemn peace. Pippin and Bertha looked very stern and serious, like they were looking off into the distance and couldn't decide if they liked what they saw. "Merci, mon Roi et ma Reine," he said, touching both.
Carloman I partially succeeded Pippin, with Queen Hermentrude. She wasn't his wife, she was the wife of Charles II. As France moved directly across the nave to her burial place, he contemplated why they put her next to Carloman I. Probably because Charles II wanted his own brass bust, not some stone one. Pffft! Royalty, he huffed inwardly. They were set up as mirrors. Her left thumb hooked in the clasp chain of her cape, his right thumb hooked in his. In their opposite hands they grasped short scepters. She was smiling, and she had soft looking, plump lips to add to her bright face. He was almost pouting in comparison. Same hair as Pippin, but his crown carried shield reliefs on it and embellishments, not divisions.
France didn't stop for Carloman. When Pippin died and split his kingdom among him and Charlemagne, France ended up in Charlemagne's care. From what France heard later, they hated each other. They both felt they had a legitimate claim to the entirety of the Frankish kingdom, and Carloman raised an army to attack and depose Charlemagne himself. They were on the verge of war when Carloman died. Thank God, France said unapologetically. His poor caretakers, seriously!
Charlemagne ascended next, and from him onwards France remembered interactions with his kings. Though most of them are fleeting memories, or incomplete ones. They always lack something, like sound, or setting, or color.
France recalled one specific blur that was his coronation. On the 6th of October, 768 France was five years old, give or take. Snippets of green countryside passed by the window of their carriage on the way to Noyon. A still image of Charlemagne, multiple layers of blue tunic and white fur spilling around him, making him look bigger than he already was. France fussed the whole ride - he remembered being miserable. At one point Charlemagne waved France over and said something to him. France could see his lips move in the memory but couldn't hear him. He had short, unruly, thick hair and a scratchy, rough beard, and France remembered being afraid of him. He remembered thinking that Charlemagne looked a lot like all the images he'd seen of Jesus Christ. Somewhere in little five year old France's mind the word image got lost, and France remembered equating the two. Thinking at one point he was Jesus.
He beckoned France over to his side of the carriage. France slid from the seat and went over as close as he wanted to get, which wasn't very close. Charlemagne lowered his head to stare at France and used one finger to call him closer. He closed the distance hesitantly, afraid of talking to Jesus. When France was close enough Charlemagne picked him up and sat him on his lap. The next thing France remembered is his hand poking into France's peripheral, pointing to different things in the countryside.
He remembered knees of adults running around, left and right, nearly frantic. He remembered crouching behind a pedestal and vase, thinking he was so clever as he hid away from the adults chasing him. Running from the dressy tunic and tights he had to wear. Taking them off over and over until they caught him and dressed him again.
He wanted to go home, God, he was so bored! The people at the front droned on and on and on in a language he didn't understand anyway. He didn't want to be there, he wanted to go to sleep. He leaned his head on whoever happened to be the poor soul to his right. Looking across the aisle he met eyes with a baby staring right at him. Rich, dark auburn hair and gold eyes, a cute little curl poking stubbornly out of his smoothed hair. France smiled at him but he immediately threw a fit, screaming and crying. While his nurse hushed him, suddenly another baby poked his head out and locked eyes with France too. He had light red hair and gold eyes, an identical curl sticking up the other way. France didn't want to upset him as well, but luckily he smiled at France.
Playing on a swirly red and black rug with two little kids named Saxony and Austrasia at the reception. They told him they were just like him, and he liked playing with them.
Charlemagne, grey bearded, holding his sword out to France, laughing when he couldn't lift it.
He built schools, he devoted serious efforts to reading and writing and made France learn to read and write, in a time where it was reserved for the monks. He controlled the Viking invasions regularly. He was a great man, directly involved in every part of his kingdom. A great general and leader to France.
Charlemagne wasn't up yet? That was strange. He was a man of the morning, always waking France up.
He pushed open the doors of his bedchamber and saw him laying there, still asleep. France could surprise him! He took a running start and vaulted the bed, crashing onto the soft covers and pillows. "Boo!"
Charlemagne didn't move.
"Hey!" France said, tapping his arm. "Hey, hey! What are we going to learn today? Charlemagne!"
Why wasn't he answering? "Charlemagne! Hey!" He continually called his name, and the tapping eventually turned into a full-on frantic punching.
He didn't move.
Realization crashed down on France like stone cracking.
Charlemagne wasn't buried in the Saint-Denis Basilica. France couldn't pay respects to the man who felt like his father.
France skirted King Charles II's silver bust without stopping. Despite being Charlemagne's grandson he was completely off the mark. His title was Charles the Bald but France preferred Charles the Cowardly. They thought France's attitude towards him was just childish disrespect but it was much bigger. It was the translation of his peoples' attitudes. He ascended the Frankish throne and inherited the Holy Roman Empire in 840, but split the Holy Roman Empire up amongst his two other brothers. Louis the German wanted more territory than he got so he invaded, and Charles II was so unpopular with the people and nobles that he couldn't raise an army to defend France. He fled to Burgundy and abandoned France while he sought refuge with the bishops there.
"Where is His Majesty?!" the courtier asked him.
"I don't know!" France sobbed.
He grabbed France's shoulders and shook him, shook him hard. France squealed in pain, but he did not relent. "You tell me where he is RIGHT NOW, boy, or I swear to you I'll have you racked!"
"Stop-"
The man backhanded him.
The only thing that saved France from Louis the German walking in unimpeded and taking his throne was the bishops' refusal to crown him as the Frankish King. France did have to share some land, though. The Treaty of Mersen in 870 made sure of that, seven years before Charles died. He lost the treaty when those looters destroyed his home.
Aaaah, the first Louis to be buried in Saint-Denis! Louis III! France went back over by Pippin, where Louis III's effigy shared a slab with Carloman II. Louis' addition to the crown included tear drop reliefs under each clover and two dots on either side sectioned off. He maintained the beard/hair combination. Carloman II was the first to break that tradition, opting to go beardless. They both had their right hands resting on short scepters, but Louis III's left hand rested on his chest while Carloman II's rested at his hip, clutching his robes. He had an impish grin on his face, while Louis III looked like he had his eyebrows raised in alarm.
France made himself as flat as possible, planting himself to the wall behind the tapestry. The running footsteps entered the room behind him, and he tried to quiet his giggling but it was impossible. "Fraaaaaancia! Where, oh where could he be? I can't find him anywhere!" King Louis couldn't find him! He stumped him- The tapestry pulled away from the wall and that same exact alarmed look greeted France. "Found you!"
No sound in the memory; France couldn't recall the sound of his voice, but he could read his lips.
He did it. He slew the dragon! France posed confidently over his victory, propping his foot on King Louis' stomach. Suddenly King Louis jumped up, grabbing France's foot with a growl, and France squealed in fear. And the cycle repeated itself.
Louis III and Carloman II ruled together, sharing the throne. Louis' dates ran 879 through the 5th of August, 882, and Carloman II's solo years ran 882 to 884. Over the course of their rules France gained Mâcon. Louis' death was particularly bad.
France woke up to screams and wails. Commotion and banging and multiple shouts of instruction at once. He ran to see what everyone was fussing about, peeking into Louis' room from the doorway in case he got in trouble for being there. He couldn't see anything, peoples' legs were in the way.
There was a gap in France's memory, but the next scene he had in his mind was hearing Carloman cry.
He was . . . crying? France couldn't comprehend a grown man, let alone a king, crying. Whatever was upsetting him was bad. He knew he had to comfort him so he ran into the room, shoving peoples' legs aside. As soon as he saw the bottom of the robe he grabbed King Carloman II's hand, but he pulled away. "Away, Francia! This is not a sight for a boy's eyes." His voice was thick with tears. As much as he wanted to look before, now he was too afraid to look. Everyone was crying, crying, crying, and France was scared of whatever it was that could make King Carloman II cry so hard.
He looked anyway.
King Louis III's face was ashen grey. His eyes half-rolled back, dead, and glossy, staring right over the edge of the bed at France. Mouth open and tongue slightly protruding in an undignified and embarrassing pose. Blood all over his pillow and sheets from his head. France didn't want to look anymore, but he couldn't look away. Blood wasn't supposed to come from there and King Louis wasn't supposed to look like that and someone needed to close his mouth and tell him to stop looking at France like that.
France's mind didn't like what he saw. To him back then, when someone died they were a skeleton. That was it. Their body magically transformed into a skeleton. He had two distinct memories of Louis' body. The real one, and a glittery, obviously childish image of an ashen grey skeleton lying in that bed staring with its empty sockets at France. Nightmares plagued France for at least twenty years after. Louis had been thrown off his horse, and his head hit a stone door lintel. He cracked his skull open. There was a lot of blood. As in, a lot of blood. France ran from Louis III's body, but everywhere he tried to run he couldn't escape the trail from where they drug him inside.
France suddenly remembered - he was thrown off his horse chasing down a woman. He was going to make love to her. "Hm," he chuckled. "Now we know where I get my amorous charms, no?" With Carloman II's death, so ended the Carolingian Dynasty in the basilica. "Requiescat in pace," he said, leaning over Carloman to rest his hand on Louis'. "Thank you for giving me the semblances of a childhood after Charlemagne."
Somewhere after him in the late 890s Paris became his capital, and France grew quickly into an older child. He was 7 or 8 years old by the First Crusade.
For the next hundred years, France's monarchs weren't buried in the basilica.
The Capétian Dynasty, Louis XVI's Dynasty, ruled next, and still ruled. From 987 to France's present, with Louis XVI's Bourbon House being a branch of the Capétian Dynasty. Hughes Capét had an effigy at one point, but it was melted down during the 100 Years' War for armor and weaponry. At the time France had been in support of it, but now that he was feeling sentimental and had nothing to show for him, France regretted it.
Robert II the Pious would be next, then. France crossed back to the North Transept to his statue, but . . . Mmmmm, no, France decided. No stopping. King of the Franks from the 30th of December, 987 to the 20th of July, 1031. With more recent history France's dates became more exact. And, France's memory filled in besides little blurbs here and there. Robert was with his wife Constance, his third wife after failing to court a Byzantine princess, and divorcing an Italian noblewoman. France wasn't sure if he ever loved Constance. His beard went back to the tradition, but his hair curled so tightly it was almost comical. He had one straight, perfectly cylindrical curl trailing down the sides of his face, and his beard conformed naturally into three little miniature curls. The hair cascading from his crown was just as curly. His crown's clovers were two layers, a round frilled backdrop with the three leaves in front on the same band as Louis III. His left hand rested at his hip while his right pointer finger hooked over his cape clasp.
The fact that he looked so relaxed and contemplative was hilarious to France, considering how mean he actually was. How scared France was of him.
France learned that Nations couldn't die under Robert. They didn't call him the Pious for nothing. He hated France, absolutely hated him. They grew up together since France stood beside his father, but when he came of age and physically surpassed France he saw France's perpetual youth as an abomination, an affront to God's authority over eternal life. France was a practicing Catholic before he ascended (mostly in belief, a small percent in necessity), but it wasn't enough. He had to repent, and Robert was going to make sure he did. He had to cast out the demon inside of France and cleanse his spirit. In Robert's 35 years of regency France spent around 25 of them in his religious captivity. He drowned France in Holy Water, he burned him at the stake with the other heretics, he tortured and killed France over and over in an attempt to "save his soul".
Constance was a saint to him when she could be. She made sure he was always well fed and clothed and treated well when not in Robert's presence. At one point she let France sleep in her quarters with her, like a child plagued by nightmares. The two of them talked seditiously for years, planning France's escape in secret. Robert never suspected a thing, not from Constance.
It was only fitting that in 1025, France fled to Burgundy with Constance's help, to the protection of Robert's estranged sons. He joined the three sons in a revolt, and it was the first time France ever partook in battle. They ultimately succeeded, helped along by Robert's death, and his second son, Henry I, succeeded him. The same plate armor France wore during his battles with Robert's armies rested in the chest in his room.
Indignation and malice rose in his heart, bleeding into his chest until his heart was hot with it. He glared at Robert, knowing his stone eyes were dead but feeling comforted by finally having the strength to look him in the eyes. "I don't miss you," he spat to Robert. "I haven't even thought about you once in 700 years. Does it bother you that my 'unclean spirit' is defiling your resting place? I hope it does, you monster. I hope your soul is happy, wherever it wound up spending eternity." He didn't have a single touch of sincerity to his voice. Turning to Constance he immediately changed his tone. She deserved respect. Her crown held the first semblances of the fleur-de-lis, only it was much more ornate than the one France knew now. Each leaf of it was swirled in on itself and the middle was cut out. She clutched a bible in her left hand, right hand over her tummy. "Your face is still a light in the dark, after all this time. A beacon of hope to a child who resigned himself to hopelessness. You are a beautiful, caring soul. Thank you for being my soul's salvation. Requiescat in pace, Regina me."
France stayed in the North Transept for Henry I's effigy, just crossed to the other side of a cluster to stand beside him. Henry I still quarreled with his younger brother despite their unity against Robert II, and he decided to placate him with the Duchy of Burgundy. Fine by France at the time; he honestly just wanted to shut all three of them up by then. Ah! France thought suddenly: Under Henry I was France's first encounter ever with Britain - well, England at the time. Henry rushed battalions and arms to the aid of William the Conquerer under France's personal command. By 1047 they secured William's position of power in England, and France spent an extra week with him, celebrating with him and his armies.
"How are you called?" he asked him. "Do you prefer the name of your land, or have you a common name?"
"You know I am a National person?" France asked in blatant shock.
William laughed heartily, clapping France on the back and handing him another cup of wine. "But of course! What other child handles the battlefield the way you do? What other child carries themselves with the pride of a whole country behind their eyes? You have such a . . . powerful gaze. With the weight of wisdom and awareness beyond your years. Not unlike my own England! See, I feel something when I look at him, and I feel who and what he is. He may be a baby but I see the same . . . consciousness . . . in him that I see in you."
Another Nation! France blurted out, "Can I meet him?!" before realizing how rude it was. He clamped his mouth shut, averting his eyes. "I'm sorry."
"What is it you like to be called?" he asked again.
"I prefer Francia, my country's name."
"Francia, follow me." Little England had messy blond hair that stuck up in literally every possible direction. He had strangely dark eyebrows that didn't at all match his hair color and he looked to be about seven months old. He had crushed emeralds in his eyes and when they slid to France's face and met his glassy cerulean, France knew England felt a connection. His eyes widened the tiniest bit, he fussed in his wet-nurse's arms. William was right. Those green eyes were so alive and alert. They flicked all over the place, as if he was looking at something no one else could see.
"Hello!" France cooed brightly in Old French. "Hi, little England! You're so cute!" He held out his pinky finger and when the baby grabbed it, France gently shook up and down. "My name is Francia!"
England's eyes flicked from France's pinky to his face, to his mouth, to his eyes, and back to his pinky. Like he was making a decision on France right there. France held his breath, hoping little England liked him. He hadn't met any Nations since Charlemagne's crowning, and he did not want to ruin this one. After what felt like an eternity, England smiled at him. For a moment. Giggled once.
Then dissolves into sobs.
He knew from the start. He must have known.
In 1060, their alliance ended. In 1060, England and France began a collision-course, never to be set straight. Ever. Ugh. And now France would rather die than ally with The Kingdom of Britain.
As soon as France got back he pestered Henry incessantly about meeting other Nations. He BEGGED to be brought along to his meeting with Holy Rome's Emperor Henry. Frankish Henry granted his requests, and France met with a small Holy Rome in 1043 and two other times.
Henry I reigned as King of the Franks from the 14th of May, 1027 to the 4th of August, 1060. His effigy lay right next to Constance, and he himself shared a slab with Louis VI, the Fat. And, France noted, they both brought back the beard/mustache combination! His beard was longer than the norm of his other Kings. He had a long, flat face, and the beard made his face look even longer. Both hands bare, he almost looked like he didn't know what to do with them. Louis VI, on the other hand, had a scepter in his right hand, and his left clasped his cape chain. Aha! Another Louis!
Just one look at Louis VI's chubby face brought a smile to France's. He was always happy, always animated, always celebrating something he found beautiful. It could be as mundane as the birds chirping outside, or the way the sunlight spilled into his room. His jolly soul was infectious, and combined with his energetic policies, France had some of the happiest years of his life. France wasn't large in land, but Louis VI kept what he owned out of English hands. They tried to claim both Normandy and Gisen but he refused to surrender them, leading forces into battle himself, fighting alongside France. He even expanded the crown's land claim in Frankish lands itself; he repaired and rebuilt Frankish infrastructure from the bottom up, expelling corrupt and false claimants to his Duchies and feudal titles all across his land. He earned France's utmost respect as a warrior and a diplomat. He drafted and signed over 50 charters in his reign, and even allowed his Queen to be politically active. Over 45 charters bear her signature along with his.
His reign was like a breath of fresh air. Before Louis VI he walked around with a grey film over his eyes, in a half-asleep, half-dead state of mind. Louis VI brought life and vitality back into him, and when he was finished, France was reborn, refortified. Stronger, happier. He and Louis shared many fun and fond memories, especially when he entertained guests.
"You were rather fat," France remembered fondly. "Do you remember me? You taught me to be beautiful."
Smallpox were the worst. The average person fought for six to twelve days. Nations fought for as long as the outbreak. France's smallpox outbreak was short that time, but he kept the boil scars for about 80 years after that. All throughout Louis' reign he walked around with them. Any adult person would recognize he was a disease survivor. But the children of court didn't, and they made sure France knew they found it hilarious. France was a child, and he was embarrassed and upset and scared that he'd have to look like that for the rest of his projected future. They peppered his skin like a thousand freckles. Not an inch of his body spared.
"Your Majesty, you sent for me?"
"Francia! Come here!" he said forcefully, back turned away from the doorway. Staring out the window.
France immediately assumed he was in trouble. Always. His heart skipped a beat, already imagining what kind of punishment he would be dealt for whatever offense he committed. He took a cautionary step into the room. "Yes, Majesty?"
"Does that look like here? I said come here!" France's breath came in short gasps. His legs wanted to stop, a chill like a knife stab entered his neck and numbed them. He had to force himself to move, one step at a time, until he drew just behind Louis.
"Yes," he rasped from his dry throat. He swallowed thickly and tried again. "Yes, Majesty?"
"I was looking out the window this morning, and I was struck with a revelation! Want to know what it was?"
"Yes, Majesty."
"That I rule the most beautiful looking country and Nation in the whole world!" He checked France's face for his reaction, but already France disengaged, dropping his eyes. He wasn't beautiful. His face was all scarred. He gently rubbed his face and felt each little dent, eyes on the floor. Louis smacked his hand away and pulled France in front of him. "Look out the window, lad. What do you see?"
France did as he was told, and his eyes roved the scene. But there was no one out there in the dirty courtyard. Just some horses tethered. "No one, Sire. Nothing."
He threw his heavy arm around France's shoulders. "No, no, don't look for people. Look for nature first. I'll tell you what I see: life! Nature! Beauty! A charming country! The country of Francia! You need to see it too. Use your senses, use your imagination! Close your eyes. Inhale deeply. What do you smell?"
" . . . Sewage."
"Oh, come on! Smell beyond the castle!"
France laughed. "'Smell beyond the castle?' That sounds like a campaign mantra. What does that even mean?!" France said.
"It means do you even realize how beautiful you are?"
"What?"
"You're a bright boy. Try to follow me here. Look out the window again. Look at the clouds above you. Watch them roll across the sky and make shapes on the ground. Listen to the birds singing for us this morning. Let the wind outside blow your hair back like they're wheat stocks. Listen to the animal sounds of the town outside these castle walls. Well water splashing. Dogs barking. Listen to life in it's purest form! YOUR life in its purest form!"
France imagined himself on the edge of a cliff, with the seas of Normandy splashing onto the shores, creating a relaxing backdrop to the beautiful view. He could see in every direction and when he turned around he saw the rolling countryside Louis spoke of.
"Now listen to people." France put himself in the middle of Paris. "Shouts in the market places, carts rolling along the paths. People flicking water off their washings. Somewhere, a woman is bringing a life into this world. Someone is brushing their horse, someone is fighting for their life against a sickness. It's LIFE, Francia! It's vitality! It's absolutely beautiful, this world we live in! And you can claim all of it. AAAAAALL this, it belongs to you!" he said, gently poking France's heart. "This beauty, it's yours, boy! These people that call themselves Franks are yours. The rolling country side beyond Paris and the busy cities and the streams that babble and the Seine, it's yours! Even- even I am yours, though don't tell Queen Adélaide that, okay?"
France laughed, nodding at him. "Okay."
"Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"I want you to understand your own beauty! I'm trying to get you to take ownership of yourself and everything that makes you YOU! You have a beautiful and unique soul, Francia! I don't think you realize it. I don't think you grasp everything attractive or handsome about you! You need to learn to love yourself. Even if your face isn't beautiful it doesn't matter. Because you can claim all these other things and make yourself beautiful inside! You're beautiful. Now tell me you're beautiful."
"I'm beautiful."
"Now tell me you're wonderful."
"I'm wonderful."
"Tell me King Louis is a little bit fat but I still love him."
"King Louis is . . . more than a little fat but I still love him-"
He scoffed. "Abuses! You hurl abuses at your king! For shame - come here," he said, squeezing France to his side in a squishy but loving hug. "You're my Nation. I love you, too. Remember: if no one else in this world loves you, I do. Adélaide loves you."
Every day. "Tell me you're beautiful." "I'm beautiful." "Tell me you're amazing." "I'm amazing." "Tell me King Louis needs to shed some poundage but he's still very handsome." "Nothing will help King Louis be handsome." Eventually he didn't need Louis to prompt him anymore. Eventually he believed himself.
Another clip of a memory sprang up.
"Francia! Drink this! Tell me if it's good!" he said, sliding his chalice across the table to France. He caught it and a dark brown liquid sloshed over the side.
Ew, it looked disgusting! France sniffed it and the alcohol burned his nostrils. He scrunched up his nose against it. "Ugh! This smells like bad wine."
"Well you're not wrong. It's mead from our English friends across the water. Drink it!"
The next thing France remembered was retching over the chamberpot in his room with Adélaide gently rubbing small circles in his back.
France barked out a laugh before he could help himself. So loud it echoed through the whole church. He slapped his hand over his mouth to quiet them down. That ridiculous man made him try everything. Nine times out of ten it ended badly for the two of them. God, he missed him. He skirted Henry I to Louis' side and tried to quiet his laugh, but all he did was let it out in a snort. His shoulders heaved, and when he took his next breath he dissolved completely into cackles. He imagined Louis laughing at him too. "You're ridiculous!" France laughed, rubbing his arm. "I miss you, you fat lard!" France looked around and met eyes with a few monks staring at him. One started to move, and France knew he was coming over to him. He quickly covered his mouth and cleared his throat, turning around with a serious look right as they bore down on him.
"Monsieur! You need to be quiet. This is a church. A place of quiet reverence. You cannot disrespect the people buried here, or the Brothers who live here. Abbot Mathieu was nice enough to grant you entrance to the Basilica. Please do not abuse your privilege."
"Oui, Frère. Désolé, Frère."
Louis VI's reign carried France into the 12th century. From the 1st of December, 1081 until the 1st of August, 1137, France was graced with his jovial presence, and from the 29th of July, 1108, he was proud to call that jovial presence his king. "I'm still beautiful, in case you were wondering. I'm practically a work of art! Look at my face, my body. My clothes. I'm still the most aesthetically pleasing Nation on this planet!" he giggled playfully. "Requiescat in pace." He leaned over him, kissing him once on either cheek. He rested his hand on Louis', unwilling to move on from the delight that seemed to radiate from his tomb.
Louis VI's first son, Prince Philip, was a horrible child, and when France found himself able to turn away from Louis VI, he was immediately struck by the negativity emanating from Philip's effigy. Disobedient, reckless, stubborn, nasty when spoken to. Louis VI set such high standards and Philip ignored every one of them for the sake of spiting his father. France didn't want to say "luckily", but luckily Philip only spent two years as a co-ruling King. He fell off his horse in Paris in 1131 and never woke up. Beardless once more, both his hands grasped a short scepter as if his life depended on it. His carved eyebrow lifted skeptically, France could picture that lip curling into the perpetual sneer he wore on his face. He made his crown more ornate than before - jewels between two pearls around the whole band. The clovers looked more like five petaled flowers, giving it a childish elegance that suited his ignorant soul.
He shared a burial place with Louis VII's second wife, Constance of Castille. It was only fitting that after such a strong rule as Louis VI, Louis VII's seemed horrifically bad. Louis VII didn't have an effigy in Saint-Denis, and Constance's represented her modesty. Her crown returned to simplicity. A jewel with two pearls on either side, sectioned off. What made Constance's unique were the two clovers side by side in the front, not the normal one. Tight undershirt, full length tunic over it with a belt, and fully covering head wrap and cape. She clutched a bible in her right hand and a scepter in her left. The hair that France could see in the front of her wrap was just as thick and curly as he remembered. Her eyes and mouth almost wore away, though. France spent as little time around her as possible. She was so closely related to Louis VII by blood that France thought their marriage immoral, and treated them both poorly. He didn't stop for her or for Philip.
Skip Philip II, not buried in the basilica, and by Louis VIII's Princehood, by 1215, France's connections to England grew closer as the marriages and family ties caught up with them. France's name changed from Francia to France, and Louis' title became King of France. England was a small boy by then, France was about nine or ten, and they fought verbally at every single diplomatic meeting. Fought dirty on the battlefield.
"I see their commanders' banners behind them with the cavalry. But where is their Nation? You said he's here, yes, France?
"I don't see him either," France admitted. "But I know he's here. I can feel it! He's blond, bright green eyes! You can't miss him!" He found King John's flags and searched his immediate circle of horses, but nobody made France's heart burn. "Maybe he turned yellow and fled? Like the cowards the English are?"
Louis laughed. "Cowards. Right you are. Yellow bastards. We outnumber them. It won't be long until they all flee from Normandy's soil. This is French land! This is MY land!"
Those around Louis raised a rallying battle cry, and anyone else close enough to hear took it up as well, lifting swords, javelins, and shields. As inspiring as it was, it couldn't rally France's troubled heart. He knew England was here, and he would find him, damn it! He would make him pay!
He scanned the battlefield and the bodies instead. Maybe England acted as a foot soldier. There was a line where the forces clashed, and France noted proudly that the French covered more ground than the English. There were more bodies on France's half of the battlefield. More English blood on French soil. He didn't see that blond hair lying anywhere, screaming or clutching at any wounds, but many had helmets on. His heart twinged, he grew frustrated. People fell left and right. Arrows stuck from people in every direction. Limbs lay nowhere near who they came from. Gore and entrails and heads littered the ground. He'd never find him in this mess-
Wait! Was that . . . France saw yellow - unnatural yellow! He focused on the man, squinting as hard as he could while inching his horse closer. Right smack dab in the middle of the English forces' front lines, a blond man slashed someone's stomach. Kicked someone away. Parrying and sweating and panting. He had a moment's reprieve and swiveled all around him, shouting and pointing his sword in different directions. Issuing orders. Someone rushed him and he finished them quickly, parrying and driving his sword through their shoulder.
He looked up into the sky, and almost immediately France's rage surged. He found him. He found those green eyes wide with adrenaline and fury, face caked with dirt. England clashed swords with someone, and they shoved his face away, knocking him away.
"I found him! There he is! He's on the front lines!" France yelled. Before he even finished his sentence he kicked his horse forward. Already riding down the hill, fleur-de-lis banner tails billowing elegantly behind him.
"FRANCE! GET BACK HERE-" Louis yelled. Too late. That bastard was gonna get it - ooooh, France had him now! Holding his sword still at his hip, he first skirted around the French battalions. He crossed the battlefield parallel to the clashing lines until he was directly in front of England, slowing his horse down to keep its footing secure. Once he wheeled around and faced him, he kicked it back to full gallop, vaulting bodies and dodging weapons left and right.
30 feet. Britain pulled his sword from the man's body, unaware of France's blind charge.
25 feet. France drew his sword. The sound of scraping metal drew England's attention.
20 feet. He looked up, meeting eyes with France. They widened in fear, and he stood frozen for a moment.
15 feet. France threw his banner to the ground and gripped his sword with two hands. It seemed to galvanize England into action and he looked around, picking among the dead bodies.
10 feet. France guided his horse a small bit to England's right so he could swipe his sword straight across.
5 feet. England rose up with some kind of weapon he pulled from a body. A wooden pike. He knelt to the ground and pointed it up. "Merde-!" France gasped and tried to stop his horse but it was too late.
Impact.
The pike impaled his horse in the chest. Its front legs collapsed, and France catapulted from the animal. He remembered being airborne. He remembered feeling weightless. He remembered curling up, knowing he was going to land on his neck.
Impact.
" . . . Idiot." King Louis scoffed, shaking his head.
France woke up a few days later after dying from a broken neck.
Louis IX, King from the 25th of April, 1214 until the 25th of August, 1270, was canonized as a saint after his death for his work during the Seventh and Eighth Crusades. He used to have a monument in the basilica, but it was melted down for weapons during France's Wars of Religion. He had to skip him.
1270 to 1285 would be Philip III, then. France had to look for his burial place, and found him back in South Transept. He was in a big cluster with his wife, Isabeau, by herself on a black marble slab - the first to have black marble! Philip III rested behind her on black marble with Philip IV, his son. France wasn't going to stop, but decided Philip IV deserved his respects.
Philip the Fair, Philip the Iron King. His rule spanned the turn of the 14th century, reigning as King of France from the 5th of October, 1285 until his death on the 29th of November, 1314. Like Louis VI, he worked heavily with infrastructure and unification. Rather than let the barons and fifes around the land act as his governors, he relied on personally appointed officials. The state and its affairs became centralized, constructive, and effective, and he often had a personal hand in the affairs of the people. He restricted and dwindled feudal powers until they were little more than titular leaders.
Interspersed with the physical repercussions of sporadic war with England, France received a new energy. A jolt of motivation, and empowerment and emotional and mental stability that rivaled everything he received with the people now.
Philip was devious, though. An easy and convincing liar, a literal force of nature all in himself who manipulated everyone around him - even the pope! Even Pope Clement V was wrapped around Philip's fingers, and he used it to his advantage, becoming involved in the whole affair with the Templar Order. He was deep in debt with the Knights Templar. To eradicate all records of the debt he made it a personal goal to eradicate the Knights. Ultimately succeeded in 1314, the year of his death.
He was everything Louis XVI wasn't. Headstrong, stubborn, standing firm in his convictions no matter who or what stood against him, be it a pope or an army.
"Flanders, Philip's not going to budge on this," France pressed.
"Neither am I!" he yelled, crossing his arms defiantly.
" . . . " France couldn't think of anything to say. He sighed instead. "We've been fighting for two hours over a treaty that's non-negotiable! You either need to accept this compromise, or we'll continue our hostilities."
"How very official of you. Did 'Philip the Fair' tell you to say that?" he said, mocking Philip's title.
"They also call him the Iron King," France reminded Flanders.
"What were these battles even about? Our money? Our land? It looks like both from this treaty," he said, picking it up off the table. He held it at arms length in front of him, turning his face this way and that to inspect the document from all ocular angles. "You want Lille AND Douai? You're mad! And I'm not sure how many zeroes are in that money figure but I don't like them." He transferred both hands to the top and held it up to rip it down the middle.
"No!" France yelled, dashing forward. He snatched it from Flanders and held it away protectively. "These battles were about you and your people murdering every single Frenchman they could find in Bruges-"
"Because they harassed the townspeople-"
"Because ever since 1297, you are under Philip's jurisdiction!"
"Yes, yes, the Franco-Flemish war, I got it! Not like I fought it or anything," he grumbled sarcastically.
"You lost it! You are a part of the French Kingdom now, and this treaty is recompense for the Battles of Courtrai and Mons-en-Pévèle!"
"I only fought those because YOUR man took Guy of Dampierre hostage in 1300!"
"And now you're going to pay the penalty for fighting your sovereign, King Philip!"
"Don't give me that! You're only mad because I kicked your ass at Kortrijk. Your Courtrai, I guess - thank you for bringing that up! How did that one taste, eh? I remember the exact date: the 11th of July, 1302! 2,500 men at arms and 4,000 infantry, defeated by 3,000 Flemish militia?"
France's anger surged, but he quieted down his snarl. "And then we beat you at Mons-en-Pévèle last year-"
"Excuse you, that battle ended indecisively!"
"JUST ACCEPT THE TREATY!"
The door crashed open and Philip entered the Great Hall, head up, crown perfectly straight, long, elegant strides and fleur-de-lis robes billowing elegantly behind him. Flanders' Count Guy trailed behind him, barely keeping up. France bowed low to his King, but Philip didn't even acknowledge him before he pulled a pen from the ink well. He offered the pen to the Count first. "Sign."
He stared at it a second too long, and for a moment France's heart squirmed in fear at the thought of defiance. Luckily for everyone, he sighed tiredly and took the pen, inching over to the treaty. He penned his name so small it was almost non-existent. As though he wanted to make it disappear into the paper. "Sign the treaty, Flanders," he said to his Nation, holding the pen out to him.
"Your Lordship, no!-" he protested, backing away. Philip grabbed his wrist and drug him over to the table, planting the pen in his fist.
"Sign," he growled, throwing Flanders down over the table. Flanders sent one last wide-eyed, pleading glance to his ruler, but he shook his head.
"Sign it." He did as he was told, grumbling the whole time.
"France?" Philip said, gesturing to the paper. He took the pen and signed both his human name from back then, Louis de la Couronne ('Louis' after Louis VI, and 'of the Crown' as his land designation), and his National name, then handed the pen to Philip.
He garnished his signature with a flourish and his wax seal, picking up the document. "Thank you, gentlemen. France," he said, already marching from the room.
Philip IV. God help the men who ever disagreed with him. "I may invoke you later, to help Louis XVI. Requiescat in pace," France told him. He smiled down at Philip's face, as fair in stone as it was in person. He had a charming and round face, short forehead, large stern eyes with a sharp nose and thin lips, thick and wavy hair like France's blond. His crown's band was extremely thin, covered in jewels. The disproportionately large leaves on top were the focal point, adding originality and drawing the eye down towards his face. His scepter mounted the fleur-de-lis at the top, clutched in his right hand, and his left hand curled into a fist around his cape clasp. His effigy was the first to include detail on his clothes; the pattern on the trim of his tunic matched his crown band's jewel shapes.
The black marble gave him another layer of pomp and elegance, in accordance with how he carried himself. France remembered him often making jokes about the two of them. "We could bring all of Europe to its knees simply by looking at it, France!" he used to say.
His son Louis X succeeded him, and over the course of his rule he earned the epithet 'the Quarreler' because of all the battles he waged with his own noblemen. From the 29th of November, 1314 until the 5th of June, 1316 he was King of France, though his was a reign France would rather forget. Everything Philip IV did to build France up from the inside out crumbled under Louis X. All the energy Philip imbued France with was all gone in the course of two years - not long at all for a Nation. He died male-heirless as well, and the struggle that he left in his wake because of it halted all political action for two months after his death. France skipped his effigy and skipped the effigy of his son and daughter as well. Neither of them saw regency. Jeanne couldn't rule alone because she was a woman, and Jean I died in infancy.
In her place, Louis' brother Philip V assumed the throne. 20th of November, 1316 to the 3rd of January, 1322. But where was his statue? When looking into the basilica from the door, France spent all of his time on the floor of the nave. He didn't have to go deep into the transepts or anything - in fact, there weren't any effigies deep in the west wing that he could visit in chronology. The only person in the east wing was Francis I.
He left the west nave and the effigy of Louis X and took a short trip up the small flight of stairs to the choir and ambulatory, and as he glanced around halfway up he found who he was looking for. Philip V, Charles IV his son, and Charles' wife Jeanne d'Evreux had been hidden behind Henry II and Catherine de' Medici's massive tomb, in a little alcove under the stairs. France ran back down the stairs as quietly as possible, skirting the bannister and the side of the altar. He passed under the arch way cut out of the stairs and stopped by the three of them.
Called the Tall with good reason, his statue towered over the other two, just like he used to tower over the (roughly) ten year old France. Together, France and Philip's first orders of business involved dismantling Louis X's systems. France drafted a revival of an edict Philip IV first instituted to diminish all feudal powers across the land that weren't the crown. As it had before, the edicts strengthened the power of the monarchy and destroyed the power of the nobles. He actually went out and physically took the titles - he made their lands and titles be forfeit to the crown for any reason he could find and it worked for set up the audit system and reclaimed much of the crown's wealth.
He worked mostly on the state as a whole, initiating one single currency of France along with the weights and measures, and he repaired France's relationship with Flanders after it deteriorated under Philip IV. Oh! And the Court of Finances! The audit system, how could France forget?!
France knocked. Knocked again. Knocked again and again and again.
"They're not home, my Lord," one of the knights behind him said. "Let's move on to the next. We have a quota."
"Nooo, he's home," France said, and he knew it. He wrung the scroll in his hands patiently for a few seconds, then knocked again. "Excuse me!" France yelled. "I'll have you know that ignoring an agent of the crown is punishable by death-"
The door flew open. "An agent of the crown?! What are you, ten?"
"Yes."
"What do you want, boy?" the nobleman spat.
"Hi!" France said pleasantly. "First I'd like to show you this," he said, unfolding the top scroll. "My patents of nobility. As a warning to address me from here on out with the respect my title deserves! Next, I'd like to show you this!" He swapped the papers, showing him King Philip's decree. "His Royal Majesty Philip V declares that all noblemen owning titles, lands, and wealths not endorsed by His Majesty must forfeit their riches to the crown - their rightful owner." France quickly hissed in a breath through his teeth. "Ooooh, and alsooo?" France said, feigning hesitance. "You haven't paid your dues in seven years." He rolled the edict back up and gestured to his two guards, pointing inside the house. "Do your work, Sirs."
They carried as many things out at a time as they could, and France helped when he could. Tossing them carelessly into the cart, France climbed atop the mass and they rode away for the next nobleman's home.
Good times! How France missed his candid speech.
Despite the stress of Philip dying childless, France really did have a smooth, easy run with him. Gently touching his hands, he marveled at the detail of his robes in the stone. The layers ruffled and bunched so naturally France would've sworn that if he touched it he'd have felt cloth. The same crown as Philip IV wrapped around his head, beautiful wavy hair spilled down the sides and framed his face perfectly. France could see the Philip IV in him. His left hand gently touched his chest, fingers half-extended as though reaching softly for something. Right hand extended completely at his side. Like he didn't know what to do with it.
Charles IV and Jeanne were in exactly the same position, and their robes were just as detailed. Charles IV. Also called the Fair. 3rd of January, 1322 to the 1st of February, 1328.
France didn't like him.
"What say you to the selling of feudal titles?"
"Sorry?" France asked. He hadn't really been listening.
"I'm thinking of selling feudal titles to improve the crown's income. Along with raising the taxes."
Alarm bells clanged in France's brain. NO! NO! NO! they sirened, over and over. He shook his head. "Obviously I'd be against it, Sire. Philip IV and Philip V worked diligently to clean up the state and centralize the government away from the feudal lords. Why do you want to return power to them when they'll just abuse it and take it away from you? On top of the fact that-"
"We need the money, France. You know that those with money are those with power anyway. Those who buy the titles won't have anything more than they used to."
" . . . That makes NO sense! You DO realize that this only became a problem because you debased the coinage, right? Our money's not worth as much anymore."
"And I'm trying to make it right."
"Please don't. It's not going to help. You don't need to raise the taxes AND sell offices and titles. That's ridiculous."
Again, how he missed his candid speech.
Aaaaaah, reenter England during Charles IV's rule! Charles built fortifications on the border of Agenais, extremely close to English-owned parts of French mainland. Almost immediately, English forces went in and destroyed the fortifications. Charles sent France and a full army to English-owned Montpezat and successfully seized the town, but unfortunately, the hostilities spiraled into a war. The War of Saint-Sardos. Which France won. Ahem. Won completely. Take that, England.
After Charles IV, the last of the direct Capétians, France decided to call it a day. He had enough of this sentimental crap. Things were different now, they were different as each man brought their own personality and policies to their rule. He thanked every single monk in the Basilica on his way out, riding back to Paris by night fall. Maybe he would go back some day. Maybe he wouldn't. He sort of felt like he was shafting the House of Valois, though, so depending on how badly it ate at him, he'd be back.
May 4, 1788
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Library of Louis XVI
France ordered a new padlock for his chest the very next day. He made sure Louis XVI knew it, too, out of the childish spite he thought he buried. Louis could have done it for him easily, especially with his extensive background and expertise in locks, but France didn't want anything from that man anymore.
While cleaning the chest he took everything out individually, searching through it and relishing in all the old memories they brought up. Because as done as he thought he was with sentimentality, he realized the next day he enjoyed his history review, even the bad parts of his history. Besides, he hadn't even covered the really fun parts: the Plague, the Hundred Years' War, all the time he spent with Jeanne d'Arc, the Seven Years' War . . . So many fond memories he missed. He decided he'd go back to the basilica as soon as possible and finish out all his old rulers in the House of Valois. The Bourbons weren't buried in the basilica. He didn't have to worry about Louis' direct lineage.
France fought directly with Jeanne during her campaigns, but was called away at different times to help Charles VII on the domestic front. She wrote to him during those times, and when France found the letters he gathered all of them up, around twenty in total, and carried them to Louis' library to read them in peace.
He didn't make it through the first before Louis showed up.
'5 May, 1429
France, mon amour,
The taking of the Fortress of Saint-Loup was marked with a Bitter Struggle. Once again, Dunois and his Men planned an Attack without me. I arrived late, and it took Hours, but by God's Will we were Victorious. I can now use the Fortress as a Base of Operations for Any Outgoing Campaigns, though I pray no more Bloodshed befalls the Loire's Banks. Before we proceed, I am going to send each English Garrison around Orléans a Message: to Abandon their Fortresses in Peace. But the English are Proud. I fear it is Hopeless.
These Captains do not trust me without You. They shake my Confidence in myself. Sometimes even I cannot explain the Feelings I have and the Sensations I feel, and when I face their Jeers while Stumbling over my Words, it is difficult to maintain Belief in myself. Though I will not Admit it, I am often Beset by Doubt. I often question myself, my Capacity for this task God has chosen me for, and my Faith. It is often a Battle within myself: is my Faith strong enough to push back my Fear? Is my men's Faith in me strong enough for them to Follow me? My heart often Struggles to find Words riveting enough to Rally them. For they listen to me, but only because they have to, not because they Believe in me or Believe in my Mission from God.
I miss you. I know it has only been Days, but I miss you. I miss you deeply-'
"FRANCE!"
"Hm?" France asked, looking up. When he saw Louis he immediately regretted saying anything. He broke his streak of not talking to him. Damn it!
"I said, where were you yesterday? And get your feet off my table."
"Don't talk to me," France said, though he did as he was told.
"Excuse me. You're in my library."
"This is the only library in the palace!"
"Not true. Marie has one on her side of the castle."
"This one is bigger. And closer to my room. Go away. I'm reading."
Louis fell silent. For a moment. "I had thought . . . " he began, trailing off. The bite was gone from his voice. France looked over and saw him playing with the lace on his sleeve. Eyes down, as per usual. " . . . I had thought . . . um . . . "
"If this is about you thinking I was leaving, you can stuff it!" France snarled.
"No! No, no, no!" Louis insisted, "I just thought maybe youwantetatome," he mumbled.
"What?!"
"I just thought you were in here because maybe you wanted to talk to me."
France inspected his face, searching for sincerity to his statement. In his eyes, in his posture, everywhere. It was there, yes, but France was determined to not let it get to him. He hardened his heart and shut down every thought of Louis he could.
Most of the time, when France felt bad about something, it wasn't because of himself. Usually he started thinking about what he said and how it effected who he said it to. Were they confused? How hurt were they by what he said? Would they cry? It always ruined France's meanness, because he always felt the urge to apologize after hurting them.
He swore he wouldn't do that to himself this time. He was going to say what he wanted to say this time.
He looked Louis straight in the eyes and shook his head. "Nope! No, I didn't want to talk to you. At all. In fact, I was hoping to avoid looking at you ever again for as long as I am in the Palace."
Louis physically flinched, pain evident in his eyes when he dropped them to the floor. "I see." France expected him to leave after that. If someone were that rude to France he would've left, whether he had a retort or not. But Louis held his ground.
"Did you want something, then?" France asked. A clear usher out the door.
"I suppose, since you were out, you missed the summons to my offices yesterday?"
"Obviously."
"The Parliaments drafted a document called the Declaration of the Fundamental Laws of France. It's another appeal to the Estates-General being the only body able to levy taxes. And they criticize my lettres-de-cachet. I was hoping you could review it with me and help me come up with an appropriate response-"
"No. Deal with it yourself."
"Myself? B-bu-wh- I can't, don't you see?!"
"You have Brienne-"
"I need you, France! You know what to do! You can combat them with your natural strengths. Strengths and knowledges inherent in you that I do not have!"
"And you will not listen to!" France countered. He stood from the comfortable chair, wincing at the knowledge that he'd have to leave to accommodate Louis, not the other way around. "No, Louis. Look at my face. I'm done. Look into my eyes: I'm done. Read my lips: I'm done."
He gathered up his letters.
"What are those-"
"Mon Dieu - none of your business!" he hissed. "Good bye, Louis-August de Capét, good luck. Whatever you decide to do, good luck. Don't tell me about it. Don't tell me if it works, fails, whatever. From now on, you're on your own. Completely. Tell Brienne the same."
A/N: Leave a review if you have time!
I had to do SOOO MUCH RESEARCH for this chapter, and it was probably one of the best decisions I've ever made! I've always wanted to write a chapter with the Nations recalling old Kings and old memories and I figured now is a perfect time to do it, when France feels completely isolated on the regal front. I encourage every single one of you to Google the Saint-Denis Basilica effigies. You'll probably get a lot of results for the more larger tombs, but make sure you look up Dagobert's, and Louis XVI's at the LEAST! Plus, the inside's BEAUTIFUL to look at! My dream is to go to France, and if I get there someday the Basilica is my number one tourist destination because of all the history there. I cannot even explain how passionate I am about it.
Thank you to everyone who followed/favorited and reviewed!
Abc: come off anon! You always leave me such wonderful reviews and I'd like to thank you in person! That goes for all my guests!
-Keyblader